Chapter VI: Doings at Tongue

When Thorkel of the Tongue heard what was going on at Nupsdale, he went up there after his girl. He did not see Cormac, but he called Stangerd to him, and said: “I hear that Cormac of Melstead is often up here after you. Now come you back with me, my girl.”

Stangerd said that she was ready.

“Yes,” said her father, “it seems to me that you are ready for many things. All in good time and one thing at a time. Let all be done in order and with decency.”

So he brought her home to Tongue, and it was not long before Cormac heard that she was there, and went to see her.

Thorkel saluted him fairly, and passed the time of day with him, thinking that he would judge for himself how things were going to turn out. Cormac sought out Stangerd and talked to her so long as the daylight lasted. Thorkel watched him closely, and didn’t know well what to make of it. He didn’t know, for one thing, why Cormac irritated him so much; but presently he found out. It was because the young man did not know he was there. It was because he behaved as if the whole house held nobody but Stangerd and himself. Thorkel’s house, mind you, and (if you come to that) Thorkel’s daughter. No man could be expected to like that.

And so it went on for a time, and Stangerd used to watch for Cormac’s coming, and to take it as a matter of course that he should be with her in whatever business she might have, and sit with her, and talk. Many men were in the hall at Tongue, for it was a busy place. But when Cormac was there, Stangerd saw no other person, and Cormac saw none but her. The world indeed held but the pair of them, as it seemed.

Thorkel said little, but he did not like it, and did not like Cormac, who seemed to him too free of his house and child. He was a shrewd man of few words, and did not believe in Cormac. Such words as he let out were not hard to understand, and there were those about him who made the most of them.

There was a rough man named Narve who was about the place, and there were worse than he. The two sons of Thorveig the spae-wife were very often at Tongue after Stangerd: the eldest of them was called Ord, a blusterous young customer always at rough play. Stangerd had no liking for him, and Cormac at this time no jealousy at all; but Ord was very jealous.

However, Narve, who was a fool, was the one that began. He said to Thorkel one day: “Master, it’s not hard to see that Cormac’s visitings are not to your taste.”

“Who told you that?” Thorkel asked him.

“My wits,” said Narve.

Thorkel said, “I am glad they are of some use to you. They are not far out this time. I know no harm of Cormac, yet I wish he would leave my girl alone.”

“He can be taught that,” Narve said.

“As how?”

“In the old way,” said Narve; “by a better man than himself.”

Thorkel glanced at him. “Do you mean by you, perchance?”

Narve said “I do.”

Thorkel had nothing to say to that; then Narve went on:

“Do you give me leave to deal with him?”

Thorkel said, “You need no leave of mine. Deal with him how you can--or if you can.”

Narve took this for more than leave, and set his wits to work to provoke Cormac.

The year was wearing to the close. The harvest was all in, the sheep were in pen, and the cattle in byre. Now was the time when men were killing beasts for salting against the winter. At Tongue that was Narve’s work in particular; but everybody was very busy.

Cormac came in there one evening and looked about, as he always did, for Stangerd. She was not in the hall, but in the kitchen, where the work was going on. She had covered herself with a great apron and was busy with the rest. Narve was stirring a cauldron of black puddings and watched the pair. They met without greeting; Stangerd scarcely looked at Cormac, but was very much aware of him; as for Cormac, he did not take his eyes from her, but went and stood by her, very close. Narve could not see that they had much to say to each other, and judged that matters were beyond speech. Stangerd went on with her work under the eyes of Cormac. Presently Narve called out to Cormac: “Hither, runagate, and see my snakes in the kettle.”

Cormac looked over to him. “What am I to see?”

“Come and see how they boil and bubble. See them all in love with one another. They can’t leave each other alone.”

Cormac frowned, but he went to the cauldron. Narve stuck his prong in and fished out a pudding. “Kettle-snakes, I call them,” he said. “Wrigglers and hankerers. What do you think of them?” He stuck the hissing morsel under Cormac’s nose, grinning, gleaming at the eyes.

“Why, I think,” said Cormac, “that I could see you writhing in there after a few more of your speeches--but you would foul the broth, and there are shorter ways with you.”

Narve said, “The shorter the better.”

Then Cormac took him suddenly by the ear, and cuffed him soundly, and flung him away. Narve went out of doors.

Ord came in among them, and went to Stangerd, where she was salting the meat. He nodded to Cormac, but spoke to her: “Oh, Stangerd,” he said, “you should be out on the brae. The moon is coming up, and the evening is very still and warm.”

Stangerd said she was too busy; and then Cormac said, “She will go--but not with you.”

“With whom, then?” said Ord with a hot face.

“With me, then,” said Cormac.

Ord clacked his tongue on his palate, but held his ground, red and furious, as he well may have been, seeing he had known her the longer, and considered her in a sense his own. Cormac also was troubled--not angry, but troubled because his sense of intimacy was gone. Yet very soon another thought took possession of his mind. It was, that it was a beautiful thing to see a beautiful girl beset by lovers or admirers. He saw how calm and unconcerned she appeared, going on with her rubbing, with two flaming and fuming youths about her. He doubted if self-possession went deep; he guessed that within her her heart was drumming a lively measure. But her outward bearing was noble. She seemed not to have a care in the world but the rubbing in of salt; and then he thought of her as the bountiful Earth itself, the mother, the adored, the need of all men. He was inspired, and he sang of her:

“Well do they call you Sleeping Gold,
Since no man lives but cannot see
The light-flung glory which you hold
As Erda holds her majesty,
A thing of little worth, the fee
Of whoso asketh, being bold.
Let him draw nigh, the well is free,
Say you, the fire for who’s acold:
Let him drink, warm himself of me.
Your heart, O Stangerd, you hold up
For asking men; they need but need--
There is no bottom to the cup,
There is no pauper but may feed.
So in your calm eyes each may read
The truth he asks, if he be true--
So to your arms all come indeed
And die, as they have lived, of you--
And your gold sleeps, and takes no heed.”

Stangerd bent to her work, but she flushed, hearing this song. She felt that she did not yet know Cormac, and that she must either pretend that she did, or drive him to explain himself. She did not wish to do this before Ord, lest Ord should think less of her. So she bent to her task and said nothing.

But Ord fretted and fumed, then broke into scoffing.

“The skald is bold enough--with the tongue. Women take words for deeds, I believe. But men don’t.”

“Some men do,” said Cormac. “Narve is one. You have not yet been tried. But you may come to it.”

“And if I come to it, Cormac, what then?” Ord put back his shoulders.

“If I tell you,” said Cormac, “that is tongue-work. But you ask for deeds.”

Ord glared at him, very red, working his tongue about. Then he turned away.

“I won’t ask--I’ll do,” he said. So Cormac held his place.

But Stangerd was cross. “You should not sing of me so,” she said, “before other men. I am ashamed.”

“Of what are you ashamed? Of me? That can hardly be. If I belittled you, or held you cheap, you might well be ashamed. But if I declare your glory?”

“You don’t choose to understand me. You talk of--you talk of my eyes----”

“Of course I talk of them since I see them, and think of them all night,” he said.

“----and of my arms, as if--I was--I don’t know what.”

“It is very possible that you don’t know what you really are,” Cormac said. “But I shall tell you before I have done with you.”

“You may tell me what I please to hear,” said Stangerd with heat; “but you shall not talk before other men of my person. It makes me ashamed.”

Cormac threw up his head. “O warmth of the Earth! O heart of the World! There is no part of your person of which you need be ashamed. You might mate before the eyes of all men at the Thing, and you would but blind them with your splendour.”

She bit her lip, but her eyes looked kindly at him; and presently she went with him to the door, and stood without it in the dark with him.

And they both stood trembling together, and presently, without word said, they turned and kissed.

“Eye-level and heart-level they,
And mouth-level; but till that day
Never had been what now must be:
Kissed mouth to kissing mouth is fast,
And two hearts beating to one tune.
Breathless and speechless for their boon,
They cling together; but they kiss
No more; but mouth and mouth co-mix
And make one being at the lips.
And all burnt splendour of the moon
Throbs with the heat of burning noon.”

That was the first time that ever Cormac kissed Stangerd, and it was the first of many. For after that she let him take her in his arms and kiss her as he would, and bless Heaven for having made her, and cry to the stars to shoot from their sockets and make a wreath for her head. And she herself kissed him once or twice, and prayed him not to be foolish, and believed that he was not.

* * * * *

Cormac marched singing on his way under the stars. He went by the shore of the firth, and before he left the water he went in up to his middle, and soused his head and shoulders. He laughed suddenly, thinking of Narve.

“The scullion and his kettle-snake!
What ailed him and his blister’d tongue?
Will he scrape me with his muck-rake,
Scatter me, as he scatters dung
About the meadow? And the house
That holds her harbours that wood-louse!
Salmon and gudgeon in one lake,
One tree, sea-eagle and titmouse!”

Then he went home to bed.

But at Tongue, over the fire, Thorkel sat frowning while he heard what Narve had to say.

“The fellow is dull,” said Narve, “or he shams dullness. I showed him as plain as I could speak that we had had more than enough of him. I insulted him; but no! It needs more than words.”

“He had you by the ear, I understand,” Ord said; and Thorkel said, “You’re not man enough.”

Narve flamed. “Man enough! I’ll show him how much of a man I am--when there are not women in the room. But there was Stangerd and a maid or two more, and you know what girls are about these things! Bloodshed? No, no. Not before women. Don’t ask me to do that.”

Ord said to Thorkel, “My brother and I are at your service when you want us.”

Thorkel said, “There’s room here for a ready hand, seemingly. Come up here to-morrow, the pair of you, and we’ll have him out of it.”

They laid a plot between them before they went their ways. Narve said that he was ready for anything, and Ord said he would bring in his brother Gudmund.